


Eighteen Point Two Centimetres

by jellybeany



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Getting Together, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Kissing, M/M, Rare Pairings, Ravenclaw Common Room, The Ravenclaw Door Knocker, Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-15 23:48:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29444337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jellybeany/pseuds/jellybeany
Summary: “I’ve got to tell you something,” he said guiltily, and then laughed.Harry waited.George laughed again.“I really fancied you in school,” he said, and leaned over and kissed him.A short and sweet story with a rudey dudey wheeze chucked in. Couldn't resist.What is worthless to one, but priceless to two?
Relationships: Harry Potter/George Weasley
Comments: 9
Kudos: 100





	1. Cherry Wine

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Valentine's Day!

After an elegant ceremony in the heart of Diagon, everyone and their uncle squeezed into the Burrow’s back garden to get piss-drunk in celebration of the newly married Fred and Angelina Weasley.

Harry knew what to expect from a Weasleys’ wizarding wedding reception - a marquee to fit a hundred people, live fairies fluttering about and stealing silver dragées from the desserts, and so many red-haired individuals that he felt like a flea trapped in Crookshanks’ fur.

But he hadn’t expected any part of it to be sad.

George had delivered a wickedly funny best man speech that somehow descended into teary, incomprehensible aphorisms. Angelina’s gain was George’s loss, and he was happy to see his two best friends happy, but he wouldn’t know how to finish a sentence by himself without Fred. Ron and Hermione laughed. Harry looked at their clasped hands resting on the table and felt a little sick.

Four hundred and seven toasts later, the guests spilled out of the tent into the balmy night, dancing and singing and loving each other. Late August was melting into September, thieving leaves off the trees when no-one looking. Harry went to the shed.

He found George round the back, sitting with his knees up and holding a bottle of cherry wine by the neck.

“You sharing?” Harry asked, dropping beside him and nodding at the wine.  
George took a swig and passed it.

“It’s a good thing,” George said, staring at the oak tree beyond the garden wall. “Change is good.”

Harry saw a memory of himself at twelve, trying to throw a gnome past that tree to impress Fred and George. They’d rescued him in a flying car and taken him to their universe. He forgot to respond until George’s hand brushed against his, reaching for the bottle.

“Change is hard, though,” Harry offered, trying to think of what Hermione might say. “He’s your brother. Of course you’re going to miss him when he goes to live with Ange.”

George dropped his head back against the shed wall. Then he did it again, thunking experimentally. There were no fireflies in the British Isles, but the fairies illuminated the darkness around them, glowing how he imagined fireflies did. The party was in full swing, shouts and laughter forming one big sound. From this distance, it was like being in a deep dream, and hearing voices from the waking world slip in.

“Yeah, we’re pretty similar. And we look the same, too. Hey, it’s almost like we’re—“

“Twins, yes,” Harry deadpanned. “Ha-ha.”

George stopped smiling.

“Sorry. Fred’s the funny one.”

“What? You’re funny. You’re both the funny one.”

“Mm.”

“You are.” Harry nudged him with his shoulder. “And. I’ve always liked you more.”

A beat passed.

“Really?”

“Well, don’t tell Fred. But, yes, I’ve always… thought we… what?”

The evening had painted them both grey, so he had to concentrate to make out George’s expression. A smile was pulling at half his face.

“I’ve got to tell you something,” he said guiltily, and then laughed.

Harry waited.

George laughed again.

“I really fancied you in school,” he said, and leaned over and kissed him.


	2. Melancholic

Harry rolled over in his sleeping bag and replayed the moment in his head for the sixth time. A hand, cupping the back of his head. He thought he might taste cherry wine, but he only tasted heat. George moved drunk-slow, deep and warm, pressing close. There was nothing to do but open up.

He sighed, anchored by a heavy burning at the thought of it, of tilting his head and diving deeper. It could have gone on longer if Lee _Big Mouth_ Jordan hadn’t stumbled over. He began to replay it a seventh time.

Outside the memory, the smell of bacon wafted in irresistibly, and the other guests around him rustled and mumbled. The privilege of sleeping in a bed was bestowed only to those family members aged over a hundred; the rest of the guests were crammed in to every corner of the house, top and tailing. Except Charlie, who had pitched a one-man tent in the garden. Harry found himself sandwiched between old members of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, who hadn’t wanted to stop reminiscing until dawn threatened to break. He had to perform a delicate tap dance between sleeping bags and flowery duvets to step out of the room without crushing anyone’s fingers.

*

Three Weasleys and a Granger were nursing hangovers in the kitchen.

“Sleep well?” Hermione yawned. She had confetti in her hair.

“Bacon,” Harry answered. Ron handed him a plate.

“Our school letters arrived half an hour ago. Here, this is yours. Gosh, I think I’m still going to be drunk when term starts! Was your wedding anything like that, Arthur?”

“Hm?” Arthur snorted awake. “Mine? Oh, no. Blimey. No, well, of course we couldn’t have more than half a glass, since Molly was already…”

“Already what?” Ron asked suspiciously.

“Er. What? Nothing, nothing. Erm, more tea, Hermione?”

The third Weasley still had his face on the table, buried in the crook of his elbow. Harry poked it with his fork.

“George?” he whispered.

“Out in the garden, I reckon,” the twin groaned, raising his head infinitesimally and squinting.

“Thanks,” Harry said, and slipped out.

He found him in the marquee with Angelina. They were eating leftover wedding cake with their hands, giggling.

“Um, George?“

“Morning, Harry. Haven’t seen him.” This red-haired twin tipped his head back and dropped a lump of cake in from a height. Angelina opened her mouth wide and he took aim with another lump, edible darts. She caught it, her dark cheeks iced with lemon buttercream from past attempts.

“Fred?”

“Yeah?”

“Oh,” Harry said, feeling unbalanced. “Right.”

Fred raised his hand, wiggling the finger that was adorned with a burnished golden ring.

“See, you can tell us apart now,” he winked, “We’re no longer the same person.”

“Also, George is missing an ear,” said Angelina.

Harry left them alone, feeling stupid. When he stepped back into the kitchen, George was gone.

*

Between gathering all his belongings from every corner of the house and trips to London to buy new supplies for his final year at Hogwarts, he didn’t have a spare moment to get George alone. There was always someone else there.

He was carrying his and Hermione’s trunks out to the car on September 1st when he realised he was out of chances.

“That’s us ready, I think. Not going to see us off at the station?” Ron asked.

“Nah,” George shrugged, leaning against the doorframe. “I’ll Floo to Hogsmeade later, I’ll probably be there before you.”

“Remind me again why we have to take the train from London when we could be there in five seconds flat?”

They all looked at Hermione, who blinked.

“Because. Tradition. Logistics. Infrastructure?” She shrugged.

Ron squeezed her round the waist.

“Mmm, tell me more polysyllabic words, O genius girlfriend of mine.”

“I would if I thought you would understand them.”

“Ugh,” said Harry. “Let’s go. Bye, then—”

The doorway was empty, he only caught a flash of ankle disappearing up the stairs.

*

“So, still hungover?” Ron asked, once they’d put their luggage on the racks and settled in a compartment with Neville and Luna.

“What?” Hermione placed a mark in her book and looked up at him from within his encircling embrace.

“Remember, you said you’d still be hungover by term time. I think I’m just about sobering up, myself.”

“I never said that.”

“What? And you say I don’t listen!”

“Well, you don’t, clearly, because I would never say that. There’s no way alcohol would remain in your system that long.”

Ron looked pleadingly at Harry, who pointedly looked away. He’d decided, years before they got together, that he would never take sides. No matter how small or large the bickering. He listened to Neville instead.

“Good party, wasn’t it? I haven’t been to many weddings. Only my uncle’s, and that was very formal. But Fred and Angelina’s was pretty perfect, right?”

Luna hummed.

“It was rather melancholic,” she said, “but yes, perfect as well.”

“Melancholic?” Ron and Hermione said together, at the same time Harry said: “I thought so, too.”

“You do know that means sad, don’t you? Melancholic, tending to depress the spirits?”

“Don’t talk to me about spirits,” Ron said, “I’m never drinking again.”

“It was sad. Especially for George. Wasn’t it?” Harry tried. “They’ve been running the shop in Diagon together since Hogwarts. And now Fred and Ange will stay in London and George’ll be running the Hogsmeade branch by himself. Don’t you think he’ll be lonely?”

Ron pulled a thinking face, which was notable due to its rarity.

“Fred’s not the easiest person to live with, though. I thought he was happy to get away, to be honest. It’s not like they were gonna stay joined at the hip forever, is it?”

Harry was thrown. He had never been able to picture one twin without the other. Both had been somewhat unreachable, bonded to each other too closely to let anybody else in.

“What if it was us? We’ve seen each other almost every day for seven years, how would you feel if we were split up? Just—” he snapped his fingers, “like that?”

“I think George’ll be fine,” Hermione said soothingly. Ron shrugged.

“Gotta happen sometime, mate.”

Harry leant back against the seat, crossing his arms. He watched the scenery skip by, suddenly feeling more distance between them than there had been when they entered the carriage.


	3. Business

“Separated? You’re separating the houses?”

“Do I need to repeat myself a third time, Mr Weasley? I can ask Professor Flitwick to teach you a charm to unclog your ears, if necessary.” McGonagall held his gaze until he looked suitably chastised, then continued along the table distributing dormitory assignments to the eighth years.

“It’ll be one student from each house, numbers permitting,” Hermione said, looking over the papers of the people around them. “It completely defeats the point of the house system. You might as well keep everybody in the same dormitory and re-sort us. I wonder what the sorting hat thinks of this?

“Gotta happen sometime,” Harry echoed sarkily, but nobody heard him.

“I’m in the dungeons,” Ron said in horrified tones. “What about you?”

“Ravenclaw tower,” Harry said gratefully. He didn’t care much where he slept as long as it wasn’t in a cold, dark tent on the run from Death Eaters. But a tower was better than being underground.

His mind was full, a jumble of disjointed feelings. After the long journey, the serious welcome speech from Professor McGonagall, the tremendous feast and catching up with the rest of his year, he was too tired to connect one thought to the next. And the idea of classes starting the next day felt ludicrous. When was the last time he had opened a book? He had spent all summer hanging around the Burrow, being a third wheel to his two best friends and playing Blackjack with George.

George. Had it really been this morning, that he last saw him? Hogwarts was its own island, a bubble away from the rest of the world. Harry tried to cast his mind back as conversation buzzed around him.

Red hair, backlit by the setting sun. George’s lazy smile as Harry lost at cards, four times in a row. Mrs Weasley’s knitting needles clacking by themselves, farming out fair isle, as they lay sideways on armchairs and complained about the heat. Cleaning out the chicken coop, pick-up quidditch, a kiss behind the shed. A hand, cupping the back of his head.

Was it coincidence that he could never get him alone, after? Perhaps he didn’t remember it. _I really fancied you in school._

He must remember. And he lied, didn’t he? About being himself.

The eighth years stretched out the feast as long as they could, but eleven o’clock found Harry on the fifth floor, arguing with the bronze eagle door knocker that guarded the entrance to his new dormitory.

“ _You wish to walk to a castle one mile away. Each step will advance you half the distance. How many steps will it take to reach the castle?_ ”

“A mile away? I dunno, a thousand steps? Hang on, each step will take me half… right, two then.”

The eagle looked at him pityingly.

“I wouldn’t take any steps, I’d take a broom. How about that?”

“ _You wish to walk_ —”

“I know a spell for burning wood. Just saying.”

The bird seemed to narrow its eyes at him, and said nothing. There was no handle on this side of the door, nothing to point an unlocking spell at. But he could try. He took his wand from his sleeve, but someone appeared at his side. Malfoy.

He looked better than Harry remembered. No longer washed out, and scared. He belatedly registered that Malfoy must be the Slytherin eighth year he would be sharing with in the new living arrangements.

The eagle repeated the riddle, and Malfoy’s eyes drifted to the nearby paintings as he thought.

“You can’t reach the castle. If each step advances you halfway closer, you’ll always be halfway away. Zeno’s paradox,” he said to Harry, then turned back to the door knocker. “Infinity.”

The door swung open.

Malfoy entered and strode through the common room before Harry had decided whether or not to thank him. He was distracted by the thought of answering a riddle every time he wanted to go to bed. If only Hermione were here, but she was staying in Gryffindor tower.

The Ravenclaw common room was like stepping into the night. Midnight blue rugs and chairs in indigo upholstery sat neatly about the room, and the ceiling was blanketed in twinkling constellations. He spotted Cassiopeia, that familiar W.

Or an M, depending on which way you looked at it.

Ernie MacMillan and Terry Boot greeted him from their beds as he entered the dormitory, another circular room with rich blue hangings. If Gryffindor red was warmth and fire, this was calm and cool. It felt peaceful, but interrupted by pangs that he wasn’t bunking with Ron, Neville, Seamus and Dean. He would see them tomorrow, he told himself, and fetched his pyjamas out of his trunk.

From his bed, he could see Malfoy in the bathroom, doing normal things: brushing his teeth and washing his face. As if he was a normal person. It was very strange.

He turned his gaze to the waning moon and pulled the hangings closed.

*

Classes that week passed in a blur. Homework was piling up at an alarming rate, he could feel it like a physical weight on his shoulders. He’d had one class with the new DADA professor: a short, blonde witch who wore Muggle trainers. It could have been style, or it could have been Stealth and Tracking. They allowed her to move about the room silently to watch them practice defensive duelling techniques.

Harry laughed at the memory of getting Ron about the face with a conjured haddock because he had been too busy admiring Hermione’s stance. The three of them had classes together, and ate together, and walked through the grounds together, but each night they went their separate ways. He felt the distance like a physical ache, an unravelling thread pulled from a jumper sleeve. Keep pulling, and there would be nothing left.

It was finally Saturday. The first Hogsmeade weekend. He was going alone, Hermione citing a need to visit the library and Ron mumbling something about flying with the tip of his ears burning (a sure-fire sign of a lie). Harry didn’t want to think about they were really going to do together. He dug in his trunk for a scarf to protect against the bitter Scottish wind. It was fine this way, at least he wouldn’t have to think of an excuse as to why he was so determined to get to Wheezes.

He spotted a blond head at the end of the drive, amidst a mingle of chattering students in bright coats and boots. He saw it again as he reached the fountain at the entrance to Hogsmeade. Malfoy seemed to be taking the same route through the high street, looking back every so often, but never stopping.

Until he reached the bubblegum pink door to the side of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, by which time Harry was right behind him.

The door opened and George stood there in socked feet and jeans.

“Hello, was wondering when you’d show up. Oh.”

His hand gripped the side of the door as if he wanted to slam it shut.

“Sorry, Harry, we’ve got business. Later, yeah?” He motioned for Malfoy to come in and led him up the narrow staircase to the flat above the shop. The door shut in Harry’s face.

 _Business?_ Harry thought as he kicked his way through piles of autumn leaves. What did that mean? Actual business, or some other kind of business? What kind of business could he possibly have with Draco Malfoy?

An hour’s walk through the village and an early lunch at the Three Broomsticks hadn’t done much for his mood. He returned to the shop in the afternoon in somewhat of a temper.

“Why was Malfoy here?” he shouted.

“Hello to you, too. I’m fine, thank you for asking. How are you?”

“Seriously.”

George rolled his eyes and took a step back.

“Come up, I’ll make some tea.”

He had seen the flat only once before, when the twins were both living in Diagon and expanding the joke shop had been a daring dream. The living space had been crammed to the rafters with experiments, works in progress, and towering piles of cardboard boxes of extra stock for the shop. It looked neater now. In other words, he could finally see the floor. He looked around, taking in the tidy kitchenette, the worn oak dining table, and the large half-moon window at the far end of the flat. Through it he could see only sky, but if he moved closer he would be able to look down into the street.

It was cosy. A row of colourful mugs sat upside-down on a wooden shelf above the sink. George took two down and chose the chipped one for himself.

“I asked Draco if he wanted to pitch ideas for the shop, help me design some new lines. Fred’s away on honeymoon, so I had some space to,” he shrugged, “strategise.”

“You’re _hiring_ him?” Harry had a hard time believing Fred would allow such a thing.

George waved his hand lazily and filled up the kettle.

“Not while he’s still in school. It’s more like a… consultancy type thing. I suspected you might have a problem with it, but I really don’t know why, Harry.”

“You don’t know why I might have a problem with it? Do you not remember everything he’s said about you in the past seven years? About Hermione? Your family? Me? I could write a book about it.”

“Yes, he was an eejit. We were kids. Fred and I weren’t perfect either.”

Harry shook his head, trying to make sense of this.

“He was a death eater.”

“He was,” George said plainly, pointing at Harry with a teaspoon, “but I seem to remember you speaking for him at his trial in June. You said he was under duress. You said his mother helped you. I thought were you putting the past behind you?”

“Okay, sure, but why him? Why not Ron?”

“Ron!? Why would I ask Ron? He may be my brother, but he’s not exactly creative. I thought about asking Lee, he was a good sport about testing products in the early days, but he’s got a full-time job on the wireless now.” He sighed. “Look at it this way: Malfoy’s clever, he’s inventive, he’s skilled at charmwork, and he knows what people will like. Admit it, those badges of his had mass appeal.”

“The ‘ _Potter Stinks’_ badges?”

George’s mouth twisted, and he spoke softly.

“I promise, I’m not going to sell anything like that. You’re a silent partner, you can look over all the prototypes. Come sit in on our next meeting, he’ll be showing me his ideas. And that’ll make him shit bricks. He already thought I sent you to follow him this morning.”

“What! I wasn’t following him. I was coming to see you.”

“To be honest, I think he’s a bit scared of you since you got rid of Old Tom.”

 _Scared?_ That would explain why Malfoy had been dodging him recently. He didn’t spend much time in the dorm, and kept his head down in Potions. He’d thought Malfoy was just shifty.

“I was coming to see you,” Harry repeated. “To— I don’t care about Draco Malfoy.”

“Mmm,” said George, fiddling with things on the draining board and not looking at him. Harry leant against the counter and shoved his hands in his pockets.

“Were you avoiding me?”

“Why would I possibly do that,” George muttered under his breath, scratching his head and looking away. He rearranged magnets on the fridge with intense focus.

“You were avoiding me,” Harry said eventually.

“How do you think I feel!” George said desperately, and then went tight lipped.

It was one thing after another today. Harry felt as if he’d been hit with a stunner. _I must not tell lies_ , he thought.

“I have literally no idea how you feel,” he said, as calmly as he could, feeling his pulse start to hammer in the base of his throat.

George threw his arms up.

“Embarrassed! I never should have done that. Or said that. At the wedding.”

“Oh.”

“How do you feel, then,” George said flatly, as if it didn’t matter to him.

“I don’t know.”

And Harry didn’t. He couldn’t put a name to it, this crawling, wriggling feeling, a push behind his belly and an itching in his fingers. His mouth was dry, and he got the inescapable sense that he was fucking this all up.

“Well, it’s been nice seeing you, but I’ve really got to…” George glanced around the room for an excuse, but couldn’t find one. The side of his face was very red.

“No—wait. You said—“ he could name the feeling now, it was embarrassment. Excruciating, teenage awkwardness. And an urgency, a panic, like expecting an extra step and hitting the floor hard. “You kissed me. I wanted to— do it again.”

George looked at him quickly. Bit his bottom lip.

“Yeah?”

Harry let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. He took his hands out of his pockets but didn’t know what to do with them.

“Yeah,” he said quietly.

George took a step closer, slowly, gaze lowered. Then he carefully removed Harry’s glasses and set them on the kitchen counter.

Harry forgot how to kiss, how to breathe, was so busy feeling it happen that he forgot how to do anything. He didn’t know where he was allowed to touch; he reached out blindly and found the warmth of George’s side.

He couldn’t remember a time he had been this nervous about anything. He was painfully aware of each sound, each tiny movement, the cold press of his nose against George’s cheek.

They moved tentatively.

And then a shriek — the kettle, whistling piercingly. They jumped apart.

George swore and moved the steaming kettle off the hob. He looked back at Harry, wide-eyed. Harry was sure he must look the same. He restrained himself from reaching up a hand to flatten down his hair, but only just.

And there it was again. That lazy smile. That’s how he told them apart, the twins. Fred grinned with all his teeth, but George was always holding back, reluctant to give himself away, but smiling nevertheless.

“Let’s try again, shall we?”

Harry nodded, and George leaned in again, confidently this time, brushing fingertips up Harry’s neck. His other hand slipped into Harry’s back pocket.

He relaxed into the heat of George’s mouth, letting time slip away.

It wasn’t close enough. He pressed deeper, faster, chasing and licking. The knowledge that they both wanted this — had wanted it, for who knows how long — settled in and warmed his bones like a tonic. George pulled him over to the sofa and he let himself be led, surrendering.

*

Hours later the room was dim, and George had cruelly stopped snogging him to mumble something about curfew.

“They’ll lock the gates soon, right?”

Harry lifted his head from the arm of the sofa to get a view of the window. The lamps were lit, it was already evening.

“I’d like you to stay, but I’m not facing McGonagall’s wrath if she thinks I’ve kidnapped you. She’s already on at me about selling super-strength dungbombs to students.” He rolled off Harry and stood up. “Your glasses…”

“Bollocks,” Harry said to his watch face, gearing himself up to run.

“Take my broom if you like? Get there quicker.”

“Thanks,” he said, feeling dizzily bereft. George handed him a Cleansweep and opened a door to a tiny balcony from which he could embark. “But won’t you need it?”

George smiled warmly, hair mussed and gorgeous.

“Yeah. You’ll have to come round again soon to give it back.” A shadow of a wink.

“Right,” Harry caught his meaning, feeling careless joy radiate out of him, protecting him against the cold September air.

“Go on, then. Off with you. Minx.”

Harry laughed, feeling a grin too big for his face. He mounted the broom and kicked off from the balustrade into the sky.

*

Filch was dozing on the bench with Mrs Norris on his lap when he returned. She turned her yellow eyes on Harry, but let him pass.

He bounded up the marble staircase, broom in hand, energised and exhausted in equal measure. The eagle door knocker spread its wings and recited:

“ _I am worthless to one, but priceless to two. What am I?_ ”

Harry thought of card games and summer nights, inside jokes, of tea forgotten to be drunk.

“Love?”

The eagle bowed its head, and the door swung silently open.

He fell face first into bed, smiling.


	4. Wicked Willy Wangler

On Sunday Harry dressed quickly, wincing at the frigid air in the tower dormitory. Ron was waiting for him by the stone circle, stamping his feet and casting a warming charm on his knuckles.

“No Hermione?” he asked as they set off down the drive.

“Nah. She’s, you know,” Ron pulled a meaningful face that only toads would understand.

“Ill? Pissed off with you?”

“Both. Her, uh, Aunt Flo’s visiting…”

“Oh, I really didn’t need to know that. I _never_ need to know that. Please never speak to me again.”

“Right you are.”

The village of Hogsmeade sat squat and pretty, with high gabled roofs and patches of purple wildflowers dancing in the breeze. They stopped off in Honeydukes for liquorice bootlaces before knocking on the pink door at the end of the lane.

“Alright? We’ve been waiting— Christ, what are you doing here?” George crossed his freckled arms and frowned. Harry tried to suppress the burning, urgent feeling, and reminded his heart that it belonged in his chest and not leaping outside of it.

“Oi!” Ron shouted, a sticky bootlace hanging out of either side of his mouth. “Not pleased to see me? I heard you were testing products today. Can I see?”

“Not testing, discussing. None of your business.”

“I’m your brother!”

“And I’m vigilant in the fight against nepotism. Clear off.”

“Ah, all right. Come and find me in the pub later, yeah?”

Harry had no intention of doing any such thing, not if the alternative was more snogging. He said goodbye and followed George up the stairs. Malfoy was already sitting at the table, looking like he might wet himself. He caught Harry’s eye and then looked away quickly, staring down into his mug of tea and fiddling with the corner of notes he had brought. George sat down opposite him and rubbed his palms together. Harry took a seat between them.

“So, what have you got for us?”

Malfoy launched into an explanation of his ideas, some of which were surprisingly good. Sweets laced with diluted truth serum for games of Truth or Dare, a potion to add to milk that let it tell you when it was about to go off, notepaper on which the writing could only be read by the intended recipient. For passing notes in class, Malfoy suggested, but there could be other applications.

“Definitely,” George said, nodding enthusiastically and scribbling things down. The two of them started talking in depth about magical theory, the kind of stuff that made Harry’s head hurt. He sipped his tea and let his mind wander.

Eight inches of parchment due for Transfig, ten for Potions. He had the bare bones of it down. Lately his time George had become a great motivator, he wanted to get homework done quickly so he could devote time to reliving certain things in his mind. If he only he had a pensieve.

“Wasn’t there something else?” George asked. Harry had been staring out the window unlistening, but the pause in speech brought his attention back to the conversation. Malfoy placed a hand over his notes and seemed to face a short internal struggle.

“Well,” Malfoy hesitated. “You’ve got love potions. Facsimiles, obviously. But there’s a gap where it comes to sexual enhancement products.”

Harry tried not to choke.

“What sort of thing were you thinking?” George asked calmly, and kicked Harry under the table.

“For example, in times of stress, it can be difficult to, um. Get it up. And stressed people drink, which doesn’t help things. Considering the— the past few years, I think there’d be a market for it.”

Sorry, was he saying was Harry thought he was saying? Admitting he couldn’t get it up?

“Hmm. We could go two ways with the branding. Discreet for owl orders, over the top for in-store. If we make it a prank, people won’t feel so shy about buying it. They can pass it off as a gag gift for a friend. We’d need a variation on an Engorgement charm, perhaps in a cream, something short-lived.”

“Why short-lived?” Harry asked.

“Because if Wheezes products lasted forever, no-one would need to buy them again, dingbat,” said George. “We’d go bust. But nice to know you’re interested in something long-term. What about a name?”

“Wand polisher?” Malfoy offered, straight-faced. “Something to stiffen your broomstick? Grow six inches overnight?”

“Be nice if we could work alliteration into there. Willy… Wicked Willy Wangler, sort of thing.”

“Colossal Cock,” Malfoy threw out. “Captivating? Capricious?”

“Curvaceous?” George murmured, making a note on the parchment beside a crude drawing.

“Um, I’m late to meet Ron,” Harry announced, and got the hell out of there.

*

After a deliciously heavy lunch, George slipped into the booth beside Harry in the Three Broomsticks, when Ron had got up to get more food.

“You ran off,” he said. His gaze moved from Harry’s eyes to his lips and back again. “I never heard what you thought about the pitch.”

“It was fine,” Harry said. He stretched his leg slowly, casually, until it brushed up against George’s under the table. George didn’t move away. So, that they could do. But what else? He hadn’t told Ron anything, and he didn’t think George had either.

What could he say? _It’s not like we’re properly going out or anything, but I really like snogging your brother._ _And he likes snogging me._

“Fine?” George leaned over and stole Harry’s pint. He sipped it and shrugged his parka off.

“No. Yes. It was good. I liked that stuff about the unreadable notepaper, it reminded me of the Marauder’s Map. But I didn’t want to listen to _Malfoy_ talk about… that.”

“Ahh. I forgot you’re shy about that kind of thing.”

“Shy about which kind of thing?” said Ron, settling down another pint and basket of chips for the table.

“Sex,” said George.

“Guys, can we not—”

“You are,” Ron said, brandishing a chip. “I think it’s because you don’t have brothers.”

“Or you didn’t have The Talk. Did your uncle ever give you The Talk?”

Harry felt his insides shrivelling. He saw a horrible vision of Arthur Weasley and his sons lined up in height order, labelling anatomical diagrams on a chalkboard. He shivered.

“I had it at school. In Muggle primary school.”

“Ah,” George said, “So they only taught you the _Muggle_ way.”

“What?”

“Harry, Wizard sex is totally different.” Ron looked serious.

 _Different? How!_ Harry thought madly. He jaw dropped. How could he have gotten to be seventeen and never found this out? He felt panic set in but tried not to let it show.

They were both watching him. George was hiding his mouth behind Harry’s pint, but he could see the corner of it twitching.

“I hate you. I hate you both.”

They roared with laughter.

“We had you for a second there!”

Harry coughed and stole the remainder of his pint back.

“Can we stop talking about this now.”

“Alright,” George grinned, “but you’ll help with the testing, won’t you?”

What was he asking? Test the— the _sexual enhancement products_? And did that mean testing them _together_?

“Okay,” he said foolishly. “Looking forward to it.”


	5. Sweethearts

The following Saturday Harry found himself back in George’s flat, being told how to wash his hands.

“We follow a thorough testing protocol here at Wheezes. And don’t use a towel. Spell them dry, it eliminates potential contamination.”

Harry hadn’t been planning to dry his hands on a towel, since he usually gave them a quick shake and rubbed them on his jeans, but he did what George said.

He followed him into the bedroom, which housed a large double bed with a smart navy bedspread, and a mishmash of different wooden furniture covered in knick-knacks and books.

“Trousers off! Cover yourself with this if you’re shy.”

“Um,” Harry said, taking the brightly coloured crochet fabric. “Did your mum make this?”

“Urgh. Good point. Here, use this one instead.”

George handed him a different blanket and a metre rule.

“You’ll need to take a measurement. Before and after. Actually, we’ll need another measurement without the cream to see how much it affects your baseline.”

Baseline. Did that mean usual length of his erect cock? Christ.

He eyed the ruler. How big did George think he was?

“You don’t tell to tell me the exact measurements. I only need the percentage increase.”

“I don’t know how to work out percentages.”

“Well then,” George smiled, and handed him a measuring tape. “Girth,” he explained in response to Harry’s quizzical look.

Harry sat on the bed, arranged the blanket around him, and dutifully measured. George sat down next to him, a tray hovering by his side. He squeezed out cream from an unmarked tube and transferred it to a set of brass weighing scales, then added tiny weights to the other end of the scale until the two sides were level. Then he clapped his hands together, making Harry jump.

“Okay! Let’s start with five grams, and up it if needs be. Here,” he handed him the cream.

“I’ll put it on myself, right? Not you?”

“I wish. I forgot to say, we shouldn’t touch during this round of testing. No skin to skin contact.”

“We can’t touch each other?”

He had hoped… he wasn’t sure what he had hoped. This was all a bit clinical. There was even a first aid kit on the wicker chair in the corner.

“No, but we can talk,” George said, and wrote down the time. He performed a complicated series of twists and turns with his wand that brought up monitoring spells. He recognised some from visits to Madam Pomfrey, the blue lines showing his heart rate and hydration level. But there was a red line he hadn’t seen before.

“Tell me when it’s working.”

“Nothing yet,” said Harry, and then the full realisation of what they were doing sank in. They were just… sitting there, waiting for him to get hard. Why had he agreed to do this?

“Hmm. It doesn’t need to be instant, but I’d hoped for under two minutes. Perhaps it needs more geranium root. Or less gelatin. I’ll make a note.”

“Oh, er. I think it’s working now.” He rearranged the blanket over his lap self-consciously. The red line in the air from the monitoring spell had thickened and was quivering slightly. He felt blood rush to his cheeks, unbelievably there was some that hadn’t made its way between his legs.

“Excellent. Measurements again, please. We need to test how well it works and how long it lasts. But you’ll need to wear these gloves. Remember, no skin to skin contact.”

“What? I can’t even touch _myself_?”

“Disappointed?” George grinned.

“Uh, yes,” Harry said forcefully, too frustrated to be embarrassed. “You’re a tease and a half!”

“The testing process is very important,” he laughed.

“This isn’t testing, it’s torture.”

“For me as well,” he murmured. “I thought you’d feel hard done by, so to speak. Let’s make it fair. Ask me anything, and I’ll answer truthfully. Something embarrassing, if you like.”

Fair would have been George’s cock out under a blanket, but he’d settle for a truth. He could go with something rude, perhaps ask him for _his_ measurements, but there was one thing he really wanted to know.

“At Fred’s wedding you said you fancied me at school. When?”

George turned the colour of a postbox. How is it that he could design cock experiments without embarrassment, but talking about this sort of thing made him blush?

“Sixth year. And seventh. When you were in fifth, I suppose. Yeah, you were very… dashing. Heroic. You got all tall and cross. Shame you were in love with my sister.”

“Hey, no, it was the other way round,” he protested, seeing the heart rate line spike out of the corner of his eye, “and not even that. Do you know what she said to me when she chucked me? ‘Sorry, I realised I never loved you, just the _idea_ of you.’”

“Cuts to the quick, my sister.”

“Heartbreaker.”

“I used to think you liked Bill,” he said quietly.

“Bill? Everyone likes Bill. He’s cool. I mean, the earring. But not like that. No, only… only you.”

“Oh?” George lay back against the headboard. He left a silence, and Harry nervously filled it.

“You were older, and funny, you taught me Quidditch. You seemed to have it all together. I didn’t know anything about magic, and you knew everything. You and Fred weren’t afraid of anything.”

“This, coming from the wizard who started a vigilante group.”

“That was Hermione’s idea. I don’t mean stuff like that. I mean, when I was eleven, I would never have fed a firework to a salamander and kept it in the common room. You were limitless. Brilliant. Unstoppable. You stole one of the Hogwarts toilet seats.”

“Ha! I forgot about that. Why did we do that?”

“Don’t ask me how your brain works. And then that summer…”

It was weird to be talking about this during some kind of sexual virility experiment, when he could sense his heart rate slowly climbing, but George had a tender expression on his face. He was lying on the bed with his knees up, listening intently.

“You came and got me. In the car.” _Rescued me._ “I bet your mum thought it was a joyride.”

“She did. It wasn’t. Not for me. I was looking out for you.”

“Yeah. How come you never said anything?”

George looked down and picked at a loose thread on his pillowcase.

“You had enough to be going on with. Things were a bit mental back then.”

“Mmm.”

“Right,” George said in an overly cheery voice, suddenly red in the face. “So we both like each other, and it’s safe to say we’d both be locking lips if it wouldn’t interfere with our rigorous testing protocols, so. Do you… Would you… Is it…?”

“You’re really crap at this,” Harry laughed.

“Sorry. Fred’s the Casanova.”

“No, that’s not— I’m not comparing you. It’s you I want to…”

“To…?”

He closed his eyes.

“I’m crap at this as well. I thought we could be. You know. If you wanted?”

“Be sweethearts?” George grinned.

“Um, maybe not how I would have put it.”

“Lovers?”

The monitor spiked embarrassingly.

“Mmm.”

“Boyfriends?”

“That one. That’s the one I meant.”

“Sure. We made it through this conversation, we can do anything. You can tell Hermione that men have more emotional range than a… what is it she says?”

“Colander.”

“More emotional range than a colander. It’s been a while, you know. The effects of the cream might last a few more hours. That means potentially a few more hours of not touching.”

“I don’t think I have the willpower,” Harry admitted.

“Me neither,” said George.

He rolled on top of him in one fluid motion and pressed their lips together, soft, hard, soft. They moved in a slow rhythm, mouths wet and slick and open, arousal thrumming between them. A hand snaked its way under the blanket.

“Fuck, your fingers are cold.”

“Want me to stop?”

“I didn’t say that,” Harry grinned.

*

Sunday evening, come curfew, Harry Potter glided into Ravenclaw Tower, a walking ray of sunshine. _Sex_ , he thought, _is brilliant._

 _“What can fly without wings?”_ asked the eagle on the door.

“Time,” he answered.

“Harry! Come join us,” called a familiar face, curled up on a sofa by the fire. Hermione waved him over. He bent down and hugged her, inhaling some bushy hair by accident. He caught a whiff of shampoo and suddenly realised he really missed her.

“What are you doing here? We’re not supposed to be in each others’ common rooms, you know. It’s against the rules,” he grinned.

“Are you calling my girlfriend a rulebreaker?” Ron plopped down beside her and put an arm round her. “Hang on, I’m getting a vague recollection of breaking into the Ministry of Magic with you. And Gringotts. And the Defence classroom after hours.”

Hermione swatted him with her runes dictionary.

“I don’t remember that last one,” Harry said.

“Uh, no, that was just us.”

“What, the room with those mattresses we use to break our fall in duelling practice? Please say you didn’t.”

“Okay, I didn’t.”

“You sicken me.”

“I just missed you, Harry,” Hermione said, ignoring that last comment. “I feel like we never see you at weekends anymore. We’ve got to catch up! I know we might not be living together anymore, but we’ll always be here for each other. Won’t we? No matter what.”

At that moment Malfoy came over proffering a small silver tray.

“Chocolate?”

“Uh, yeah, alright. Thanks.”

He took the single square chocolate off the tray and bit into it. It was nice, smooth, with a creamy liqueur filling. Malfoy stood there and watched him eat it.

It was probably one of those pureblood things that he thought was good manners but really creeped everybody out.

Ron was giving Malfoy a stink eye, no doubt because food had been given and he hadn’t got any. He crossed an ankle over his thigh and turned back to Harry.

“So, what have you been up to?”

“Getting off with your brother,” Harry replied instantly, and froze.

Hermione snapped her book shut. Her jaw fell to the floor.

Ron was dumbstruck.

“How would you rate the compulsion to answer that question? Out of ten,” Malfoy asked.

“Nine,” Harry said, compelled by the truth serum. “You might want to recalibrate that before you put it on the market.”

“It’s the early testing phase,” Malfoy shrugged. “Should wear off in ten minutes.” He made a note on a clipboard hovering in midair and walked off.

“Which brother?” Ron croaked out.

“George,” shouted Hermione. “Isn’t it? You’ve been at the joke shop every weekend!”

“George,” he agreed.

“We could ask you anything,” Hermione gasped. “Did you ever read that book I got you for your birthday?”

“No,” Harry answered.

“Do you still collect chocolate frog cards?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think my hair looks better with Sleekeazy’s in it?”

“You look great no matter what you do with your hair,” he said truthfully.

“I could have told you that!” Ron said. “Let me ask one. How long?”

“Eighteen point two centimetres.”

“Uh, I meant how long have you and George been, like… What’s eighteen point—“

“Don’t ask,” Harry interrupted. “I promise, you don’t wanna know.”

*

Malfoy was talking them through the new adult Wheezes product range in the Three Broomsticks. It was along the lines of things that buzzed, edible underwear, and jelly that was safe for internal use. He’d been in talks with Bertie Bott’s over a collaboration to develop an Every Flavour Thong. Ron couldn’t get his head around it.

“But who would want to take that risk? What if you’re on your knees, you get the lacy part between your teeth and it’s, like, slug flavour?”

“Maybe the risk is a turn-on,” said Hermione.

Harry stuck his fingers in his ears.

The Floo burst into life, and two laughing figures tumbled out of it: one tanned, in an offensively gaudy Hawai’ian shirt, and the other freckled, in a familiar green parka.

“Uh-oh, double trouble,” said Ron. “He’s back, finally. Hey, Fred, where’s my souvenir?”

“Shameless,” Hermione scolded.

“Next round’s on me!” Fred called, and headed over to the bar to show off his wedding ring to Rosmerta.

George elbowed his way into the booth and laid a sloppy kiss on Harry’s cheek, stealing four chips off his plate while he was at it.

“Tell me more about risk being a turn-on,” Ron said to Hermione, “and would you still think so if one of the flavours was corned beef?”

George raised his eyebrows at Harry.

“Do I want to know?”

“Doubt it. So, Fred’s back.”

“Yep. What kind of guy takes a three-week honeymoon? Talk about excessive.”

“Should we tell him? About us?”

George leaned back and peered at him.

“He already knows. I tell him everything. Right after I got stupid drunk at his wedding and snogged you I told him, but I made him swear not to interfere. And, well, before that. Do you mind?”

“No, I… I didn’t know. I thought you didn’t get to talk so much anymore. You seemed so sad about moving out.”

“Oh, yeah, sad I wouldn’t be taking the bin out twice as much as usual. Sad not to find _empty_ milk cartons put back in the fridge. Let’s face it, he’s a nightmare to live with. All my brothers are. Were you worried about me?” That tender expression was back. “If I get lonely and need a roommate, I’m sure I could think of someone…”

“Oi! Lovebirds!”

Fred set a clinking tray of smoking drinks down on the table. His shirt had dancing palm trees on it. “What’s this I hear about you two selling sex toys in my shop?”

“It was Malfoy’s idea,” Harry said quickly, pointing the finger.

“Beg pardon, WHAT?”

“Well,” said George, slipping a warm hand into Harry’s back pocket, “I don’t tell him _everything_ …”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please forgive me for acting like Harry would ever obey a curfew. Perhaps McGonagall’s welcome speech was full of really nasty threats.  
> This story was meant to be an exploration of the separation of twins, of attraction to the maturity in a seemingly immature person, but it descended into silly nonsense. You know me. 
> 
> The working title was "Worthless to One, Priceless to Two" but I'm thinking of changing it.


End file.
